


Maintaining Discipline

by Esteliel



Category: Les Misérables (TV 2018), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Chains, M/M, Power Dynamics, Scars, Toulon Era, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-10-01 14:06:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17245562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/pseuds/Esteliel
Summary: Javert traced a scar. Valjean instinctively tensed, expecting a blow, but all Javert did was slowly follow one of the long scars that wrapped from his shoulder nearly to his waist.





	Maintaining Discipline

“Put him in the guard room.”

It must have been close to midnight when the summons came. Through the long years of his imprisonment in the prison hulks, Jean Valjean had learnt to tell the passing of time by the movement of light and shadow through the bars above his head as the moon journeyed across the sky.

He had been awake, trying to find a more comfortable position on the hard planks that were his bed. Chenildieu, who had been chained to his left side for most of their years here, was snoring. A sharp nudge would usually shut him up, but those fleeting moments when it seemed that Valjean was the only living soul in the world—when there were no blows with the cudgel to rain down on him, no shouts and yanks on his chain—were so rare that Valjean was content to simply let his mind drift with the movement of moonlight falling through bars.

Javert’s voice broke that reverie.

Tiredly, Valjean stumbled along after the guard. He was led to the guard room—a square room with wooden walls that reached to the height of his shoulder. Above, there were only bars. If a prisoner managed to break free from his chains, it would do him no good. Even if he could overwhelm the guard interrogating him, within a heartbeat ten other guards would enter and subdue him.

These things Jean Valjean had learned early on during his days in Toulon—some had come as advice from his chain mate, reedy Chenildieu, other things Valjean had observed himself. It was his eighteenth year in Toulon. Four times he had sought to escape; four times they had found him and dragged him back, and the scars the whip had left on his back were thick ropes of scar tissue.

Jean Valjean had learned in those years that it did no good to wonder about the reasoning of guards. When a man was cuffed for a word, beaten with the butt of a rifle for a single glance, he either fell in line and kept his thoughts safely hidden away within a dark, windowless part within his soul, or found himself facing either a solitary cell until he broke, or the firing squad if he was too stupid for that.

Jean Valjean was not stupid.

Eighteen years of being treated as less than a dog, of being lashed and kicked and beaten if he dared to even raise his eyes, had filled him with a glowing ember of helpless rage that smoldered deep within his chest. Yet even though Valjean could not help but grasp the opportunity for freedom when it was offered, as any beaten dog will when the chain slips in its master’s hand, this night there was no chance of flight. And Valjean was smart enough to follow obediently, to keep his eyes lowered, to offer no resistance even when his hands were grabbed and his wrists shackled by the chain that hung from the ceiling in room’s center.

Then Javert dismissed the guard who had brought him here, and they were alone.

“You again,” Javert said, stepping closer. A small smile tugged on his lips. “How long has it been since the last time?”

Valjean remained silent.

Javert’s smile widened. “A month. I had to look it up, because I couldn’t believe it. Only a month, and already you’re back in here. Do you know why?”

Valjean wasn’t certain. He hadn’t run. He hadn’t even attempted to plan an escape. There was only a year left of his sentence now. Most of the convicts who’d help another convict to prepare for his escape saw no use in helping one who was certain to get out soon anyway. So he hadn’t asked, and no one had offered.

The thought stirred something in his mind nevertheless. Hadn’t he seen Chenildieu talk to the new boy a week ago? That one still had ten years to go. Ten years—and he kept talking of the gold he’d hidden. Gold he’d stolen from some widow, and which he’d buried before they arrested him.

Valjean knew that Chenildieu had a small file hidden away. He didn’t know where; he hadn’t asked, but one knew these things regardless.

“I think you know. I think you know why you’re here.” Slowly, Javert began circling him again.

Valjean forced himself to keep staring straight ahead, even when Javert moved out of his vision. He could hear the sound Javert’s boots made on the wooden floor. One step, then another. Then Javert stopped. Instinctively, Valjean swallowed.

Javert had halted behind him.

“There’s a man who was found with his chain nearly sawn through.” Javert’s voice was dangerously soft. “Could have slipped away at any time—at least until we checked the chains next.”

Jacques. That was the boy’s name. Jacques, who’d been pretty enough to charm a well-to-do widow before he came here. Of course, now he wasn’t pretty anymore. No one here was.

“Sobbed like a baby when he got his whipping. Well, you know what it feels like.”

Javert laughed again, the low sound of it behind his back making Valjean shudder involuntarily—and then Javert reached out.

Valjean flinched when Javert’s fingers touched his skin.

Javert traced a scar. Valjean instinctively tensed, expecting a blow, but all Javert did was slowly follow one of the long scars that wrapped from his shoulder nearly to his waist.

“So. Is there anything you want to tell me about that?”

Valjean could only blink tiredly. He’d been tense ever since he’d been brought in here. He’d have to be stupid not to be.

Getting the attention of a guard was always dangerous. People got dragged in here for one reason only. Still, it was hard to think, especially with Javert’s fingers lingering on his skin.

Javert’s touch was warm. After a moment, he began to follow the path of another scar, not quite as long, from the small of his back to where it ended slightly below his right shoulder blade.

Valjean’s heart was pounding. Javert sounded like he knew something. Like he’d had Valjean brought in here just to show off his superiority. To teach Valjean that there was nothing he could do, nothing he could hide.

But Valjean hadn’t done anything. He didn’t know anything. He didn’t even know whether Chenildieu had really helped with the boy’s escape plan.

“I know there’s something you know,” Javert said. His thumb rubbed against the thick cluster of short scars on his right shoulder. “I’m giving you a chance here. You know I don’t have to do that. I could’ve had you in the double chain instead. I could’ve had you in solitary already.”

He released Valjean, slowly stepping back around him. “Or I could whip out of you. What’ll it be?”

All this time, Valjean had focused on where the heavy iron shackles surrounded his bruised, raw wrists. Now, driven by some instinct, although he should’ve known better, he raised his eyes.

Javert’s head was tilted towards him, studying him with all the confidence inherent to the guards who knew that they could beat any man for a single look.

There was only one year left. It would be insane to jeopardize that. One year. And what did Chenildieu mean to him? He’d have done the same in Valjean’s case.

Even so, no word would come out.

Valjean watched as Javert’s eyes narrowed. Then Javert took a step closer, Valjean’s shackled arms brushing against his chest.

Javert was in his shirtsleeves. His shirt was unbutton all the way down to where it was covered by the fabric of his waistcoat. Valjean could see the sheen of sweat glistening in the hollow of Javert’s throat. Even at midnight, the air in the prison hulks was sweltering in the summer. 

There was enough give in the chain that Valjean could have tried to grab his throat. If he squeezed down hard enough, Javert might be dead before the first guard rushed in.

But Valjean would be dead seconds later. They wouldn’t even bother with an execution outside to make an example of him in front of the men.

They’d shoot him right here in his chains like a wild beast. Like a rabid dog.

Valjean trembled, his fingers curling where they rested in the shackles, but he didn’t move.

“I’ve been keeping an eye on you,” Javert said. “I told you, that first time. I know you were trying to make a fool of me. And I warned you then. I know you’ll be back in here soon enough. There’s little sense in trying to teach men like you a lesson. But of course, we do it anyway. And do you know why?”

Javert stepped away from him.

Lightheaded, Valjean drew in a shuddering breath. He could feel sweat drip down his back, soaking into the stained fabric of his trousers.

There was a lash on a hook on the wall. Javert took it from its hook, then slowly returned, his eyes still on Valjean.

Clenching his teeth, Valjean refused to lower his gaze.

“Because discipline must be maintained. Without discipline, there is no order. Society would fall. That’s what we’re doing here. That’s what I’m doing here, even though I know it’s wasted on someone like you. Maintaining discipline.”

Javert stepped behind him again. Valjean drew in another breath, raising his eyes to focus on the light falling in from behind bars.

“I’ll ask you one last time. What do you know about that weakened chain?”

Valjean realized all of a sudden that he’d been working next to Jacques the day before. They’d made him swing the pickaxe, and Jacques had been tasked with filling buckets and carrying the stones towards the cart.

They didn’t know about Chenildieu. All they knew was that Valjean was one of the last people to work with Jacques.

Which made him immediately suspect. Which also meant that all he’d have to do was mention Chenildieu to stay Javert’s hand…

For the fraction of a heartbeat, Valjean felt a dizzying relief rise up in him. He wouldn’t have to go through this torment again. Just once, he would be spared; just once, the shackles would be opened and he’d be allowed to return to bed and sleep...

Then, slowly, there came a different realization. He didn’t even know it was Chenildieu who’d helped Jacques. It could have been anyone. He’d seen Jacques and Chenildieu talk—but there would have been opportunity during the day, when he’d worked next to someone else in the quarry, for someone to slip him a file.

Valjean only had a year left. Only a year.

Sometimes he thought he’d do anything to escape this hell. Anything at all. But was he like them? Was he like the guards who rained down blows on them, uncaring who they struck? Would he lash out against Chenildieu, who’d helped him prepare for his first escape attempt, long ago?

Valjean instinctively hunched his shoulders, as if to protect himself from the lash that hadn’t even fallen.

Javert made a derisive sound. Valjean could feel the huff of breath hot against his nape.

“Have it your way.”

Then the lash came down for the first time.

Valjean’s back was a map of scars. His time in the bagne—eighteen years of hard labor, four escape attempts, a hundred faceless guards who’d spit at him and kicked him and rained down blows if he so much as stumbled—had turned his back into the hide of a wild beast, more scar tissue than smooth skin.

How many times had he stood thus, his hands shackled, his back bared to the cruelty of his jailers, who whipped him with the same scorn of a drunk driver whipping a horse?

Valjean couldn’t say. He’d lost count over the years, although he’d kept a count of every day he’d spent in chains. Still, the fall of the whip was a thing no man got used to. Every time, it was as if the leather fell down for the first time.

Valjean’s entire body tensed. A hoarse cry broke free when a line of agony sprung up.

Javert gave him no time to breathe. A second later, the lash came down again, pain striking once more.

Dizzy, Valjean stumbled a step forward, but immediately Javert’s arm shot out and grabbed his shoulder.

“Stay still,” came the brusque command. And then the lash fell again.

Distantly, Valjean heard the sound of his own sobbing groans.

There were worse tools than the lash that was kept in the guard rooms. If he were lucky—if Javert were merciful—it might not even break the skin.

Had he been caught after an escape attempt, it would have been a different matter—a different whip. They would have whipped him mercilessly until his back bled, until he could no longer walk, and if he’d died later of his wounds, no one would have remarked on that.

This, as agonizing as it was, was merely a punishment. Merely discipline, as Javert had said. Clenching his hands around the chains that bound him to keep himself upright, Valjean clung to that thought even as Javert wielded the leather with precise cruelty.

Again the leather bit into his skin, as quick as a snake. Another hoarse cry broke free. Valjean’s face was wet—but even so, he was still standing. He could bear this, as impossible as I seemed.

Javert exhaled again, apparently coming to the same realization. Once more he reached out—and this time Valjean trembled, his knees nearly giving in when Javert pressed his palm to the hot lines on his back.

“You feel that, don’t you? That’s what’s waiting for you. If you’re lying to me—if you’re ever trying to make a fool of me again—it’ll be more of this. Do you understand?”

Valjean shuddered, a groan escaping his chest. His back felt raw. Even though Javert hadn’t broken the skin, his back throbbed with red-hot pain that dulled all thought, until there was nothing left but the awareness of Javert and the chains, Javert’s touch and the agony that seared him like a brand.

Javert made another derisive sound and moved around him. A moment later, he grabbed Valjean’s head, forcing him to meet his eyes.

“You’ll answer when I speak to you.”

Valjean was still shivering, light-headed with pain and the terrifying awareness of Javert’s closeness.

“Yes, monsieur,” he mumbled hoarsely, the agony rendering even the shame of his tears meaningless.

Javert held him in his grasp for a long moment, staring into his eyes while Valjean was heaving for breath, his back burning as if Javert had set it on fire.

Another smile was tugging on Javert’s lips. He laughed—that low, intimate, satisfied laugh that would have made Valjean tremble at any other time. But right now, with pain still searing his nerves and shame twisting in his stomach, all he felt was a helpless gratitude when Javert released his head at last and he could drop his gaze to the floor.

He didn’t look up even when Javert slowly walked around him once more. When Javert touched a welt, he shuddered but remained silent.

Finally, a long moment later, through the dull roar of his pain and the thunder of his heartbeat, Valjean heard the sound of Javert’s boots again. They stepped away from him. Then there was the sound of the door.

When Javert called for a guard to drag him back to his bed, more tears ran down Valjean’s face—but this time, they were tears of relief.


End file.
